Lord Of The Rings Fan Fiction ❯ Tolkienist against Mary -Sue ❯ We're not in Kansas anymore ( Chapter 2 )

TOLKIENIST AGAINST MARY-SUE

 

Disclaimer : I own nothing except Morgan and Vicky.

 

Note: This is it. My character is about to enter middle-earth. I found many stories about this kind of things but very few showed how difficult it is for a modern person to suddenly deal with a medieval culture. Most should be completely lost and dependant of the kindness of others in order to survive. The term `cultural shock' is not a vain term.

 

 

Chap 2: WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE.

 

 

The ordered piece of forested land was tame and well-kept, watered by a slender brook that laced itself through the bending, grey trees. Light ashen smokes puffing from short chimneys were visible in the horizon. It was simply a paradise coming back from the beginning of time when the hand of Man was light and thoughtful.

 

On a dirt path, a large chestnut horse was clopping briskly, pulling a wooden cart along the path. A single passenger perched on the cart's riding seat, his back slightly bowed with fatigue and age. He was clad entirely in long, woollen robes that were the colour of dark slate with a hooded grey cloak. His tall, pointed hat shadowed half of his weathered face, but his eyes shone piercingly under the brim. Grey hair waving over his broad shoulders, the man smoothed the long, white beard which flowed to his midsection. Boxes rattled in the cart, stamped with the familiar mark of the great wizard, Gandalf the Grey.

 

Glancing over his wares, a smirk lit his wrinkled countenance. His great friend Bilbo wanted the best fireworks anyone could offer for his long-expected Party. Gandalf was a master of fire and displays of smoke and light, and a long-time friend of Bilbo Baggins. Though he was considered an outcast and someone not to be trusted, all of the hobbit-village in the Shire knew and respected Gandalf.

 

Shafts of light filtered through the boughs above, and the forest life twittered and sang around the wizard and his horse. The soil was fertile and damp beneath the trees. The brook bubbled, and the woods reverberated with a comforting song. The song was broken a moment later.

 

All at once, there was a rush of violent wind all about Gandalf, bursting so unexpectedly and so furiously that he nearly looses the control of his cart. His cloak was ripped from his neck and blown across the stream, landing in the shadows. The gale rushed into the wizard's face, stinging his eyes and biting his skin with dust. The tumult was deafening.

 

As soon as it had come, the storm was gone, and Gandalf found that he had stopped his horse and that his hat was still miraculously on his head with his arms wrapped around protectively. He lifted his soiled face, gasping. The serene forest was no different than it had been before. Even the birds were still singing.

 

Searching vainly for a grey cloud in the sky, for a source of the storm, Gandalf stood, amazed. He had never experienced anything so sudden and fierce, nor had he ever heard of it happening to anyone else and beside, he should have sensed it because of his own power before it happened. Rattled, he secured his horse and cart and bounded across the slow-running stream to find his cloak.

 

He located it lying across the ground and trotted over to it. Yet when he lifted the hooded grey cloth, it was not earth or stone that he revealed underneath. Gandalf's blue stare glittered with confusion and disbelief, his brow puckering into a bewildered frown: He was looking upon a Lady. A Lady, he was absolutely sure, who was not present along his path before the sudden storm. He could not have missed the dark colours of her clothes over the green grass.

 

Speaking of clothes, this Lady was strangely garbed. A charcoal skirt, a dark green woollen sweater, black leather shoes and calf white socks. Near her left hand, there was a brown leather backpack and a small curious device made of transparent glass with a metallic frame. The Lady was on her stomach and had white skin with black long hair. His hand touched the side of her neck for a sign of life and immediately withdrawn.

 

Power. A flux of subtle and yet extremely intense power. The sensation was similar to the rush of energy he felt when he invoked the Secret Fire against the Shadow and its minions. This was no ordinary Lady. He sighed. Once again, the oath he took as an Istari was too damn inconvenient. He was almost near his destination but could not leave this place without answers to many questions. Making his camp here seemed a good idea as he knows there was not such a good emplacement for a too long time.

 

**

 

She awakened to a very intense headache. No, she was wrong. It was not a headache, it was a full-powered steam drill and its little friends and they have found numerous minerals in her head. Oops, wrong again. If what she senses was real, her entire body was the primary site of multiple teams of steam-powered engines. It hurts everywhere, so much that her pain-inducted loss of conscience was instantly annulled. Her moan of pain seems to come from a very, very long way.

 

After some time, the young girl managed to settle her general pain to a dull sensation through her entire body. Even her precedent almost supernatural clarity of mind was absent. Sensations begun to built a coherent image. She was on a woollen cloth on a grassy ground. She could sense the warmth and the characteristic sound of a…fire? She was still clothed under a rough sheet and a brass of plant was used as a pillow for her head. Rather sweet for whoever was near her. She could smell the subtle scent of pipe weed. With considerable effort, she managed to open her eyes.

 

Stars greet her with their gloriously majesty. For a brief moment, she was sure that they were singing to her in a celestial symphony and her general numbness flew from her body. She turned her head to the fire and managed to perceive a humanoid grey form. She squinted as she remarked that she didn't have her glasses. “Please, can you give me my glasses?”

 

Gandalf was puzzled. The young woman has finally regained conscience. He didn't find any problem with her when he makes camp around her. Her examination has revealed no physical problems and a rather beautiful face for someone of the race of Men. It was night when she emerged from her slumber and turned her deep black eyes to him. And he couldn't understand what she was saying. He was nicknamed the Grey Pilgrim for a reason and never has he heard such language. Thinking that the Lady has used her native tongue, he tried to initiate a conversation in Westron. “Hello, my Lady. How are you feeling?”

 

Morgan was stumped. She absolutely didn't recognize the language used and she was a talented linguist with a very good grasp of French, German, Russian and Chinese. She could feel a structure behind the sound but that was all. This was not good and she still couldn't see her rescuer. Hu? Rescuer from what? Everything that happened in the park collided in her mind and she stifled a cry of pain as she sat abruptly. A large warm hand was already steadying her and she smell an herbal sweet concoction in a cup pressed into her hands. The tea was slightly bitter but she drunk it eagerly as it soothes her headache. She was finally able to distinct the grey man at such a distance. A wise face with amazingly piercing blue eyes, grey hair in an abundant and rebel mane and a grandfatherly beard. The only false note was his dark slate woollen robe and…was that a sword at his side? “Who are you?”

 

He has been forced to use his gift of Spoken Thoughts in order to begin to communicate but her question was rather easy to understand due to the circumstances. His hand trace signs of power and her wary gaze followed them. “I am Gandalf the Grey.”

 

“I…I can understand you!” She blinks twice.

 

“Yes, my Lady. I have been forced to use a little artifice and you can only understand me right now.” A small smirk finds its way on his face and his eyes twinkled.

 

Morgan was still completely spent but she couldn't find any trace of malice in his blue eyes. “My name is Morgan Uther Pendragon.” She couldn't explain why she had given her full name to a stranger but she feels it was…required?

 

The name was charged with power and profound signification, he could sense it. In her eyes, he could read her youngness and something that was not of Arda. It was subtle and non familiar but no evil could be perceived in her vulnerable state. “I don't know what happen to you yet my Lady, but you are still feeling its effects. There is no danger for you now. Sleep and take rest. The light of tomorrow will certainly deliver answers for the two of us.”

 

“Thank you Gandalf. I am in your debt. I…know your name, I think. I…will sleep. Good…night. ”Exhausted by her ordeal and feeling safe, Morgan slipped in a dreamless slumber.

 

Well, she was a Lady of noble quality. He had sense her seriousness when she acknowledged her debt to him. Such a trait was found primarily with the male side of the race of Men. Few women could recognize and willingly accept such a burden. In fact, he has seen it only within the blood of Numenor. And yet, he was almost sure that she was not of the Dùnadan. Nonetheless, she was a mystery that he will have great pleasure to resolve, even with the long-expected party of his friend Bilbo. What…?

 

Gandalf slowly approached the sleeping form. No, he was not mistaken. Under the gentle light of the stars, the young girl was irradiating a fickle white-silvery aura. It was not the golden inner light of a Noldorin elf but something that looks like the Flame of Anor, the most powerful weapon against the Shadow.